


Alfred Hitchcock Presents: This is my Art and it is Dangerous

by PhiladelphiaBurke



Category: Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Beetlejuice (1988), Big Eyes (2014), The Jar (Tim Burton 1986)
Genre: BJ's not in this one, Delia character development, Detectives, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Families of Choice, Family Bonding, Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lydia has PTSD, Movie only, Murder Mystery, One Year Later, Pop Culture, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Sequel, Sexual Harassment, allusions to real people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26115847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhiladelphiaBurke/pseuds/PhiladelphiaBurke
Summary: Tim Burton Universe Crossover, includes "Beetlejuice" (movie only) "Big Eyes" and Tim Burton's episode of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents": "The Jar" (but you don't need to have seen either one of those, just BJ). In this sequel set one year later, Lydia finds a vital clue to an unsolved murder and has to team up with the Maitlands and the last person she’d expect- her own stepmom- to bring down a misogynistic killer. DARK FIC with some humor.
Relationships: Adam Maitland/Barbara Maitland, Charles Deetz/Delia Deetz





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“Make sure the flash is off,” Delia said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “I can’t have the light fading my work!” She adjusted her new hat- which she had made herself, out of some copper mesh scouring pads.

“It is off!” Lydia shot back. “Now, hold still.” She held up the camera and sighed, clicking the shutter again. “Alright…I think that’s every possible angle of this thing.”

“Good,” Delia said briskly, looking at her newest sculpture. It was four feet high, in the shape of a woman tearing out her own rib and stabbing a man with it. Lydia didn’t know what to get Delia for a gift last Mother’s Day, but everyone was aware that Delia’s inspiration had been running dry. So Lydia had convinced Barbara and Adam to do a little play-acting in her stepmom’s art studio- with Delia’s full knowledge and permission of course. The Maitlands took to the idea as if they were playing a party game, and had done all sorts of horrible things to their bodies to see what Delia would ‘enjoy’ most. Delia had sculpted the pose and come up with the title: “Eve’s Revenge.”

Charles had been so pleased with Lydia’s thoughtful gift to her stepmother that he offered to pay Lydia to take some high-quality pictures at Delia’s next gallery showing, which was where the Deetz family now found themselves. The richly appointed Soho gallery was as white and sterile as a hospital, and as big as an airplane hangar. There were many artists there hawking their wares, and Delia was one of the lesser entrants- she had only three pieces in the show, and they were in a less prominent corner of the gallery. Still, she was optimistic that people would buy and enjoy her work, and Charles and Otho were there as always to offer their support. Lydia was the only one in their party with gritted teeth.

“You’re doing such a wonderful job, Pumpkin!” Charles said, patting his daughter on the head. “I mean, Miss Ace Photographer!”

“Dad,” Lydia sighed, cringing at her dad’s use of her childhood nickname. “If you want me to act like a pro- and pay me that kind of money- don’t call me pumpkin, ok?”

Charles took his hand away and fumbled with his tie. “Hmm, you drive a hard bargain, but I guess it just proves you’re my little girl. You must really want that car. But it benefits the two artists in my life, so I don’t mind.”

She humored her father with a little smile. “As long as I go to get my license with you, not Otho. I gotta refill my camera, ok?”

“I heard that,” Otho said. He frowned at the complimentary glass of champagne in his hand and fished into his pocket for another pill. Lydia had peeked at the label on his ever-present pill bottle about few months ago, and saw that the pills were powerful antipsychotics. Otho was now convinced that the ‘ghosts’ he’d summoned, and all the madness following that, were symptoms of a nervous breakdown. He had ended up in a mental hospital for about a month after Lydia’s almost-wedding. Both of Lydia’s families decided that it would be for the best if Otho didn’t know anything about the afterlife or their relationship, lest everything come crashing down again. 

After making sure that a nearby folding chair was not a piece of modern art, Lydia sat down and swapped out the rolls of film in her camera. She briefly scanned the gallery and had to admit, Delia seemed like one of the better artists here, despite her lack of a following. . This was probably just the type of event where her father had met Delia, which was why Lydia hated coming to her stepmother’s shows. Most of the buyers were rich yuppies trying to look ‘hip’, and most of the artists were snooty New York types, who looked like they got off the assembly line right behind Delia and Otho. The gallery owner, a woman named Periwinkle, was no exception- she wore a black long-sleeved sweater dress, and her loose curls were the same carroty orange as Delia’s. Unlike Delia, she seemed very sweet, until one of the artists came over and started speaking harshly to her. He drew her over to the coatroom, not far from where Lydia had sat down. She could just overhear their conversation, and noted both participants were the same age, although Periwinkle looked more formidable than the man confronting her. He too was a Soho type, with a boyish pale face and tousled dark hair. He wore black pants, white wing-tip shoes and a black shirt under a white jacket covered in black abstract symbols. Without touching her, he had backed her up against the coats and was taking her to task with a very angry look on his face.

“What have you done?” the man hissed. “ _She_ has two more pieces here than me! Is that what you think I belong with- kitsch?”

‘Please,” Periwinkle said desperately, her eyes cast down to her feet. Her face was now almost as pale as Lydia’s own- the rosy-cheeked smile she had when Lydia came in was long gone. “This will be good for us. People will come for the retrospective of Margaret’s work and end up buying other works too. How could they miss you?”

“Then you’re making me look second-rate. Because you don’t respect me anymore, you don’t care about me-”

“But Knoll, you know that’s not true! Please, she almost never appears in public anymore,” Periwinkle said, sniffling. “She came all the way from Hawaii! You remember what it’s like…”

“Well, I don’t need you to be my fucking cheerleader anymore,” he snapped.

“My god,” Delia whispered to Otho. “Do you hear the way her husband talks to her? I wouldn’t talk to a dog like that.”

‘That’s her husband?” Lydia said, rising from the chair with her newly full camera.

“Watch it,” Otho said. “This place is full of echoes, ladies. He’s her husband all right- the other headliner here, Knoll Phillips. Most of this art is his.” He pointed around the gallery at different large sculptures, most of which looked like plaster casts of people with different objects in place of their heads- TVs, snow globes, even a plastic flamingo.

_Whoa,_ Lydia thought. _And people think Delia’s stuff is crappy._ “Isn’t that a little unfair? If his wife owns the place, that’s nepotism.” Lydia whispered.

“His work bought this place for her,” Otho said. “Mostly, that piece in the middle of the gallery- Knoll’s trademark. They call it _The Jar, Part 2._ Ghastly looking thing.”

_Ghastly, huh?_ Lydia thought. _Can’t be any worse than the guy who made it._ “I didn’t see it- wait, is that the thing everyone was crowded up around?” Lydia looked at her camera. “I’ll be right back, I want to take a picture of it.” She bustled through the crowd of people until she found the group huddled around the mysterious piece, transfixed. She tapped someone on the shoulder and said: “Hi, I’m with _Art in America,_ can I get a picture?” Dutifully, all the artists and patrons moved aside and Lydia got her first look at _The Jar, Part 2._ She hated to say it, but Otho was right- it was ghastly- in a way she could almost understand, but not a way she could truly enjoy.

The work’s centerpiece, of course, was a large glass jar, filled with a mysterious blue liquid. The jar was balanced on a multicolored stand that looked like a woman’s torso, topped by two supporting hands.

Floating inside the jar was what everyone was staring at: it looked like a woman’s disembodied head, with long earrings and flowing hair. _Wax model?_ Lydia thought. _At least he did a good job on that…_ but something about the wax model gave her a creepy, uncanny feeling. She remembered staying up late to watch horror movies with her mom- not long before her mom got sick, so sick she never left the hospital. Charles hadn’t liked them doing that, saying the movies would give Lydia nightmares. The movie she recalled had been about an artist who made wax models- out of dead bodies, covered in wax. No one in the movie knew what made his art so realistic, until a young woman exposed his horrible secret. Lydia shook the memory off. She could just hear what her dad, or even Barbara and Adam, would say: “You watch too many horror movies.”

A strange noise flooded Lydia’s mind- like a faucet dripping. A loud, insistent tapping. The noise brought her back- back to a time when gaping holes had opened up in the middle of her house, and serpentine bodies drew ever closer. She shivered at the memory of it and took a few pictures, just to keep up her cover and distract herself. _Better keep moving,_ she thought.

Lydia made her way back over to Delia’s work, taking in the most prominent art pieces for the first time. She now saw that other headliner for this art show was an older painter named Margaret Keane. Lydia had never heard her name before, but she recognized her paintings from cheap reproductions on the wall of her maternal grandma’s house. Lydia had always thought that the sad-eyed children in Ms. Keane’s paintings were creepy, and not in a fun way. And now the artwork reminded her of Grandma Millie, who always smelled like fruity hard candy and had been shipped off to a nursing home shortly after the death of Lydia’s mother. Lydia hadn’t seen Grandma Millie, or her mom’s brother and sister, ever since that first great loss in her life. Although she now considered the Maitlands her Aunt and Uncle, Lydia was starting to miss Grandma Millie. Now that she had come to terms with her mother's death, Lydia thought she should go visit her grandmother at some point. When Lydia asked Delia about Ms. Keane and if she knew her, Delia almost laughed in her face.

“Margaret Keane is only here because people feel sorry for her,” Delia sniffed. “They were right to laugh her off the first time around! I don’t care how many celebrities she’s painted.” 

“I can’t imagine anyone stealing credit for that type of trash,” Otho agreed. “Canaday* said it best.”

“Those kids in her paintings look dead,” Lydia said softly. Delia looked at Lydia like she’d been chewing with her mouth open, but Lydia just laughed. “What, am I wrong?”

“Don’t say the D-word in front of Otho,” Delia hissed. “We don’t want him losing whatever marbles he has left!” She looked around, like she'd heard a fly buzzing around her head, then snapped back to attention as Lydia spoke: 

“Ok, D-Word,” Lydia said. “Do you need any more pictures, or are you gonna go home and do the dishes with your hat?”

“I’ll never know what’s the matter with you,” her stepmother said in exasperation. “We can’t even have one pleasant day together, you and I.”

“You’re just mad because no one wants to buy your stuff! They’re all staring at the work you hate.” Lydia strode past Otho and Delia, heading for the bathroom. She took a childish enjoyment at the sounds of her heavy black boots clomping on the floor as she stormed away. She put her camera on the counter near where the bathroom attendant was sitting, and gave the female attendant a wrinkled dollar from her jeans pocket.

The lady smiled and nodded. “Your camera is safe here; bless you, sweetie.”

Lydia nodded and went over to the sink to splash a little cold water on her pale face. _Delia needs to wake up. No one will ever love her the way she loves herself,_ Lydia thought. She was drying off with a paper towel when she heard some one sniffling. As she crumpled the paper towel, she saw it was Periwinkle, washing her hands. Periwinkle had rolled up her long sleeves, and what Lydia saw on her wrists was unmistakable- long, white vertical scars, on the inside of her arms. It was a sign of distress she understood all too well. _Oh my god,_ Lydia thought. _Did her husband make her do that?_

“Perry?” the bathroom attendant asked. “You alright?”

“Oh yes,” Periwinkle said quickly, covering her still-damp arms with her sleeves. Her eyes were still red from crying. “It’s just…such a stressful day, Ursula. You understand.”

Lydia tried to seem inconspicuous as she dried her hands and grabbed her camera, hurriedly thanking Ursula as she tailed Periwinkle out of the bathroom. The gallery owner was headed straight for her husband’s ‘masterpiece,’ where Knoll was holding court for some art critics and prospective buyers. Lydia hung back, camera at the ready, but she could still hear their conversation in the echoing room.

“I’m looking to get into digital installations right now. That’s the way of the future,” Knoll was saying, as his audience hung around him like orbiting planets. They looked enraptured, but sometimes their gaze would drift over to the jar before going back to the artist. Lydia took the chance to regard Knoll a little more closely. There was a cigarette between his lips. His mouth was thin, but still pouted in self-satisfaction. What unnerved Lydia, almost the way the jar did, were Knoll’s eyes: they lurked under heavy, dark brows, brows that almost met in the middle. His irises were darker still, and his gaze was steady and covetous. To Lydia, it seemed he was taking in everything around him and seeing it as his. _His_ gallery, _his_ fans.

That gaze turned to a glare as his wife cleared her throat and interrupted him.

“Everyone,” Periwinkle said, “Thank you so much for coming. The gallery will be closing in a half hour, and then Ms. Keane will be giving her exclusive talk- so please, feel free to look over _all_ our pieces again, and make your purchases. The show will be open until the end of next week, but this is your only day to meet our honored guests.” The crowd nodded and began to disperse. Many of them were heading over to an area where waiters and other attendants were setting up some folding chairs for the talk.

“We’ll meet again soon, dear boy,” a bearded, professorial man said, clapping Knoll on the back as he left to grab a seat.

“And who are you?” Knoll said, his gaze coming to rest upon Lydia. It was like being under a microscope.

“Can…” Lydia swallowed, feeling breath leave her lungs. She still felt nervous when men much older than her stared at her. She tried again, hefting up her camera: “C-can I get a picture, Mr. Phillips?”

“She’s with _Art in America_ ,” a woman with a short afro haircut said, pushing Knoll forward towards Lydia.

“Last time I looked, _Art in America_ didn’t hire Girl Scouts,” Knoll said.

“I’m at NYU,” Lydia said, hoping her lie wouldn’t be too obvious. “Doing an internship with the magazine.”

Perwinkle said encouragingly: “Well, that’s very nice. Thank you for coming.” 

“NYU, huh?” Knoll said. “All right.” He stepped in front of the work and posed, clearly a practiced pose that made him look ‘thoughtful’. Lydia dutifully snapped a picture of him- then, wanting so badly to be proven wrong, to be told this was all in her head, she found herself saying: “How about one of you and your wife?”

Periwinkle moved to walk over, but Knoll held up a hand and stopped her. “The talk’s starting soon. Go find her.” She nodded and left in silence, and Lydia’s hand shook slightly as she held the camera. Knoll glared at her and before he made his exit, he sternly told Lydia: “Don’t touch anything. If you break it, you bought it.” Lydia turned away, not wanting him to see how he had rattled her nerves. But that left once place for her eyes to be drawn- the jar. The head looked as if it would move, floating there, as if it would speak to her. What might it say?

 _Tap. Tap._ The dripping faucet noise was back…

“It is frightening,” a soft voice said. “And he’s not too friendly either, wouldn’t you say?”

“Huh?” Lydia said, looking up from the eerie blue light. She hadn’t noticed the sweet-looking older lady, although she was only about two feet away. Her ash-blonde hair was fluffed in a halo shape around her head, and she wore a simple blue dress and jacket. Probably a buyer. “Sorry- were you talking to me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” the woman said, looking a little embarrassed. “I guess that’ll teach me to eavesdrop.”

“He made this thing, right?” Lydia said, pointing to it. “Do you know what it’s made of?”

The woman shook her head. “They told me it was his trademark. He has to have it at every show he participates in.” She gave Lydia a wry little smile, which made her look decades younger. “I heard what you said about my work- that it looked like the children had passed away. So I can only imagine what you think of this.”

Lydia blushed, which made her pale face look like a stop sign underneath her slouchy black beret. So this was Margaret Keane, the woman who helped put those googly-eyed little boys and girls on Grandma Millie’s walls. “Oh…I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.” A year ago Lydia would have turned up her nose and Ms. Keane and her paintings. But now the paintings made her feel sorrowful- had those children also lost someone close to them? And she realized Ms. Keane reminded her a little of Barbara, with her gentle smile.

“Oh my goodness, I’ve heard much worse than that! Critics have been taking me to task for years.” Her eyes scanned Lydia’s black shredded sweater, silver ankh necklace, hand-shaped earrings, black jeans, and finally, the camera strapped around her neck. “So, you’re an artist too!” 

“Well…not like you guys,” Lydia said. “I’m here with Delia, my stepmom. She wanted me to take some pictures of her.”

“That’s nice of you. My daughter has helped me with my work too. And your name is?”

“I’m Lydia,” Lydia said. “Actually, my grandma used to like your work a lot. I’ll tell her I met you, once I can go visit her.”

Ms. Keane listened to Lydia describe her grandmother’s old pictures and said: ‘You must miss her very much.”

“Periwinkle!” a familiar voice said, followed by a trail of cigarette smoke. “You have one job, to keep track of an old lady. How hard is that?” Knoll saw Lydia and Ms. Keane in front of his sculpture and nodded dismissively at them. ‘I found her for you,” he called off to his wife. To Ms. Keane, he said: “We’re waiting on you.”

“Of course,” Ms. Keane said graciously. “This young lady just wanted my picture.” Periwinkle arrived, breathlessly running toward the sound of her husband’s voice, and Margaret addressed her: “Thank you so much, Periwinkle- I do hate to keep you waiting, but this young lady was kind enough to tell me she was a fan. Tell the audience I’ll be right over.”

“Of course!” Perwinkle said in relief. Knoll had already stormed off. “Thank you again, Ms. Keane…and you too,” she said, nodding at Lydia. “Please send us a clipping when your story comes out.” Her husband called her name again, and Periwinkle’s face fell. “Excuse me,” she mumbled. “See you in a moment, Ms. Keane…”

When Periwinkle left, both Ms. Keane and Lydia let out a long breath, like they’d just missed getting into a car accident.

“What a terrible shame,” Ms. Keane said, her voice cracking. Then she realized Lydia was staring at her, so she snapped back into the moment and turned to her: “Oh, I’m sorry- what you must think of me! He just reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“No…I understand. There’s a lot of creeps out there,” Lydia said softly. “That’s for sure.”

Something seemed to register in the older woman’s face as she heard Lydia speak. “Oh,” Ms. Keane said, maternally placing a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Poor thing. And you’re so young!”

“No worries, I’m ok,” Lydia said quickly, her hands going back to her camera. “Let’s just say I dodged a big bullet a while ago.” She was interrupted by a familiar face.

“Pumpk-uh, Lydia,” Charles said, gesturing her over. “Come on, it’s time to go. The valet brought the car and Delia and Otho are waiting inside. She says her head is pounding.”

“Oh, bye, Ms. Keane,” Lydia said quickly, waving to the artist. “Nice meeting you.”

“You too, Lydia,” Margaret said. 

“Lovely work, Ms. K!” Charles said, as he and Lydia left to get in the car.


	2. Chapter 2

Back at home, Lydia couldn’t get the eerie feeling out of her mind- the thought of what might be in that jar. She went off right to her personal darkroom and started working on the pictures she’d taken, even though she was feeling worn out. With her headphones on and her Dead Milkmen tape turned way up, she started to feel a little better: now she was in her element, doing what she liked best. The images were just starting to come through. There was a light tap on her arm, and the door hadn’t opened, so Lydia knew it must have been Barbara or Adam- she looked down at the hand, and Barbara it was. She smiled and took off her headphones. “Hi,” she said happily, shutting off the tape with her thumb and tucking the headphones around her neck. “I missed you.”

“Hey, you,” Barbara said. “So how did it go today, did you earn that money? I hope our sculpture was a hit.”

“Delia complained about everything except my photos, so I’d say it was a smash,” Lydia replied. “The nude sculpture of you guys is on its way to a Children’s Hospital.” The first photo of the jar was almost done, so she kept an eye on it while telling Barbara about meeting Ms. Keane (turned out Barbara was a fan of those googly-eyed kids), Knoll and Periwinkle. She used as much detail as possible, knowing that the Maitlands couldn’t leave the house and liked to hear about new things, people and places as often as possible.

“Are you sure you saw scars on that poor woman’s arms?” Barbara said.

Lydia nodded. “I felt so bad for her…I mean, she must feel so alone.”

“Did it upset you?” she asked, concerned.

“I just wanted to help her.”

“Aw, I know,” Barbara said. “You felt like you understood her.” Lydia nodded and removed the picture of Knoll from the developing tray.

“This is him,” she said.

Adam stuck his head through the door. “Hey, so this is where the cool kids are at! Hi!”

They laughed as Adam entered the room, but Lydia’s eyes were drawn back to the picture. “What’s wrong?” Adam asked, noticing the change in her expression. Barbara quickly filled him in, and Lydia began pointing out things in her pictures that she had noticed about the jar, and the people who surrounded the uncanny object.

“So this is the part where it gets kind of crazy,” Lydia warned.

“Well, we do ok with crazy,” Barbara said, giving her husband a knowing smile.

“I think this guy cut off his wife’s head and put it in a jar!” Lydia cried. “And he hid the evidence in plain sight because he’s like Delia, if she were a psychotic killer!”

Ok,” Adam said slowly. “I’m really glad you’re so invested in this, but it does sound a little far-fetched. Are you sure you’re not trying to come up with stuff for your club with your friends?” 

“It’s not like that,” Lydia protested. “I know better than that- I didn’t even tell them about you guys! ” Lydia had recently started a club at her school with two of her new friends called SAU, (short for ‘Strange and Unusual’) dedicated to sharing odd books, films, photos, and unexplained phenomena in Winter River. 

“You’re right,” Adam said. “And I know you really care about your friends, so it means a lot to us that you would keep our secret. But this is so sudden.”

“I- I know,” Lydia sighed. “It’s just, you didn’t see how this guy was treating Periwinkle. And everyone was ok with it and kissing his ass….it just made me so upset!”

The Maitlands looked at one another. They knew that Lydia’s experiences from about a year ago were still strong in her mind, and to see a woman being mistreated- well, it wasn’t hard to think of who Lydia was remembering. “You’re right to want to help,” Barbara said.

“And that’s why I thought of you!” Lydia said excitedly. ‘You can go through your afterlife door and try to find this guy’s first wife, and then we can get some proof!”

“Wait, what?” Adam said, blinking rapidly behind his large glasses. “I really don’t know about all that, I’m sure there’s lots of rules we’d be breaking.”

“Don’t you think you’re rushing into this a little?” Barbara said.

“If you saw that jar, you’d understand what I mean,” Lydia said, holding up the enlarged photo she’d just finished. “When I saw it, I was sure. Look. Does that look like a dead head to you? I mean, you guys would know!”

“It could be a model,” Adam said evenly. “I’ve seen a lot of those, too.”

“It’s gross, whatever it is,” Barbara said.

“Ok, what if I come up with a plan, and then we decide?” Lydia said. “I’ll read the handbook and check everything!”

“Decide what?” Adam asked. “Lydia, god forbid this man _is_ a murderer. You could be in real danger if you try going after him.”

“That’s why I need your help,” Lydia said. “It’ll be a team effort, and we could be saving someone’s life. Maybe Juno would even knock some time off your sentence for it!”

“But you know we wanted to stay here with you,” Adam said.

“I hate to break it to you, but I won’t be around for another 124 years,” Lydia said. “By that time, you wouldn’t need to be in my house anymore. I could come to you. Why not try? Didn’t the book say you could go wherever you wanted, once your time was up? I mean, it’s not like you two are going to be in….”

“It’s worth a shot,” Barbara said, her eyes lighting up. “And we have done a good job looking out for her so far.”

“It’ll be like we’re detectives!” Lydia added.

“Juno’s people aren’t going to like it,” Adam said warily. 

“Do you want Periwinkle to end up like one of those people?” Lydia asked. ‘You told me it was one of the most horrible things you ever saw.”

Barbara looked meaningfully at him, and Adam finally sighed and said: “I can’t argue with that.”

“And when’s the last time we did something new?” Barbara said. “What do we have to lose, being detectives? You always love reading Agatha Christie books.”

Adam’s face broke out in a big grin. “Okay, that’s true, I do.” He suddenly turned serious and paternal again: “But we need to do this right, ok? We need a plan. Let’s find everything we can out about this guy, just to make sure we do have a crime to investigate. And if he turns out to be dangerous, we call the police.”

“You got it,” Lydia said. She handed Adam the photos and opened the door, and the three trooped up to the attic, where they usually spent their time together. “Hey, you mentioned books,” Lydia said. “I know where we can start looking. Barbara, do you still have those old art magazines I lent you?” Lydia sometimes did enjoy the art in Delia’s magazines, and she had stolen a few from what she called “the stepmom shut-in stash” to lend to Adam and Barbara.

“I think so,” Barbara said.

“This guy is probably in some of the back issues, Knoll with a K,” Lydia said. “We can look through those first…and I can ride my bike to the library and look up some stuff about him, too.”

“Can you get me another Clive Barker book while you’re at the library?” Adam asked.

Lydia giggled and shook her head. “I still can’t believe you finished both of mine, or that you liked them. Really doesn’t seem like your thing- you sure you don’t want a detective story?”

“Oh, I think Barker’s a great writer,” Adam said earnestly. “And the stuff he thinks is scary is pretty hilarious.”*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * (I like the idea of the very wholesome Adam finding gore and body horror funny, since that’s an average day for him)


	3. Chapter 3

Lydia rode off to the library on her bike while Barbara and Adam busied themselves with Delia’s old magazines. There was a dog-eared issue of _Soho Beat_ from July 1983 that had an absolutely scathing review of Knoll’s work.

“Wow,” Adam said. “Listen to this: “Knoll officially makes Postmodernism a dirty word. Calling his work…j…um….genuine? Honey, am I reading this right?”

“ _Jejune_ ,” Barbara said gently. “It’s French, it means naïve.” Instead of diving into Lydia’s books while being stuck at home, she had decided to brush up on her high school French.

“Thanks. So this is an old review, from 6 years ago. They said ‘Calling him _jejune_ is charitable.’ People sure hated him…I don’t see anything about a jar, though. Parts one or two.”

“Oooh,” Barbara said, picking up an issue of _Art in America_ she had remembered reading before. “Here’s one I wanted to show you- ‘The Twisted Faces of Cindy Sherman.’ We can look at that when we’re done searching for articles about Knoll.”

“Who?” Adam asked.

“Oh, I think we could learn a lot from her,” Barbara said with a smile.*

* * *

Lydia was at the Winter River Library- they didn’t have too many books on modern art, but she did find a copy of _Weaveworld_ to bring home to Adam. She realized with frustration that her best bet would be looking up microfilm copies of _The New York Times_ ’ weekend arts section. _I’ll start this year and work my way back,_ she thought. _A more recent article might give me a hint of when he first made that thing._ And Lydia was right- Knoll showed up two months back, August 1989. The article was about his early experiments with digital art installments, like video screens and holograms. Knoll was described thusly: “The tempestuous creator of the infamous _Jar_ (1986) and _Jar, Part 2_ (1986), which took the art world by storm, is trying again to get out of the shadow of his most famous creations. Although Part 1 was lost forever, _Part 2_ remains a staple at all Mr. Phillips’ shows and still exudes that same visceral power over its audience. If you want to see this infamous work, head to the Gallerie 91, owned by his longtime partner, retired filmmaker Periwinkle.” _Well, if it was supposed to be creepy, he got it right- but it’s gotta be more than that. Garden-variety creepy things don’t do this to me, of all people. And why was part 1 lost forever?_ Lydia went back over to where the microfilm was kept, and tried to remember the point in the year when all the big art reviews came out. _When does Delia get really snippy with everyone?_ And the pieces slid into place- there was a write up of _The Jar_ \- the very first one- and a blurry picture of it, the weekend of September 20, 1986. Lydia read the article to herself, hoping for more details: “The most provocative work in a blah blah blah, forces us to confront all that is evil and ugly within us….Knoll Phillips, spouse of kinetic artist Erica Phillips, has finally ensured his legacy with this bold new work.”

“Shhh!” the librarian, a woman with pointy blue glasses, said.

Lydia rolled her eyes and scribbled some notes in the notebook she’d brought with her. _Ok, a name. That’s a start….so this was pretty late in the year, and he came out with a new one just a couple months later, it looks like?_ It took her a while, but around the end of October 1986, Lydia found a small mention of _The Jar, Part 2-_ no picture of Erica or the second piece. But what she saw made her go still in her seat, hoping that Adam was right and maybe this was all a big mistake. This was the entire article:

_Following the mysterious disappearance of his wife, Knoll Phillips’ controversial found-object sculpture ‘The Jar’ was destroyed by the artist. “She has always been my inspiration and without her, my greatest work could never be the same. But my follow-up to ‘The Jar’ is dedicated to her.” Phillips recently unveiled the similar work, ‘The Jar Part 2, which does have some of the original’s confrontational nature, but lacks its stark note of reality._

“I gotta get home,” Lydia whispered to herself.

* * *

“Here’s an article about that woman Periwinkle,” Barbara said, now sitting on the floor in a little ‘nest’ of magazines, all around her. “This is about her first gallery, back in ‘83. Jeez, that can’t be her real name…hmm, she doesn’t sound like how Lydia described her at all: ‘Vivacious redhead Periwinkle is a woman of one name, but many talents- she first left her mark on the art world in experimental film, with works like 1981’s _Let’s Play Extinction_ , then moved onto performance art with the feminist collective Asphalt.’ She sounds like she had a lot going for her,” Barbara sighed. “I guess you never know.”

“Sounds like the reporter was a little too interested,” Adam said. He picked up another magazine. “I haven’t found anything about that Phillips guy. Where are those pictures Lydia took?

“They’re downstairs, Delia has them,” Barbara said. “She was badgering Lydia on her way out, remember?”

Dutifully, Adam went to ask Delia if he could have a look. He found her in the living room, sprawled on the couch and frowning over every single picture.

“Hi, Delia,” Adam said pleasantly. “Sorry to bother you, but could I have a look at those pictures for just a second?”

Delia looked up- and Adam could’ve sworn she looked like a kid who was about to tell Santa what she wanted for Christmas. “You…you want to look at my work?” But although she rose from the couch, her enthusiasm sank back down to dislike, and she corrected herself: “Oh, I guess you want to see the piece I did of you, again. I told you, the offer we got is much less than what it’s worth.”

“Uh- I’d like to see them all, if that’s ok. Maybe you could show them to Barbara and me? She’s upstairs.”

“You hate my work,” she said suspiciously.

Adam wanted to say “You know you can always trust us!” But he realized that possessing someone’s body and violating their face with shellfish wasn’t really the _best_ foundation for trust. Then again, neither was gutting someone’s house.

Instead, he said: “Oh, we really enjoyed helping you! We’d like to know all about the show, and we definitely would’ve come, if we could. Why don’t you tell us all about it?”

“Oh!” Delia smiled and looked very flattered, then dusted off her black leotard and blue velvet harem pants. “Of course, I’ll give you the _real_ version. Here, carry these upstairs for me,” she said pressing the sheaf of pictures into Adam’s hands.

Soon, Delia was sitting in the attic with Barbara and Adam cross-legged beside her, like good little kindergartners. Delia was on an old chair and Barbara and Adam just sat in midair at her eye level, as if they were on high beanbags no one else could see.

‘Is that…comfortable?” Delia asked.

“Oh, it’s fun,” Barbara said. “You should try it sometime.” Then she realized what Delia would need to do in order to sit that way… and blushed.

“I’ll pass,” Delia said coldly. “At least, for now. So,” she said, picking up the pictures and making them into a neat pile on her lap, “What you need to understand is that this was one of the most important shows of my career- even though I had only 3 pieces on display, they were still some of the best work I had ever done.” Delia rambled on like this for a few more minutes, going through the photos and occasionally complaining about the other artists at the show.

“Do you know Margaret Keane?” Barbara said at last. “Lydia said she was a special guest at the show.”

Delia hooted in laughter. “The one who paints all those grimy little kids? Her art went out with shag carpeting.”

“I just…” Barbara wanted to test her skills as a detective, so she ignored Delia’s remarks and tried to get her to open up, like people on cop shows did. “ _You’_ re the only other modern artist I know by name. I was just wondering what she was like, from a professional’s point of view.”

Now their housemate was nodding, as if Barbara had said something very wise. “Well, she looks good, considering how her husband put her through the wringer,” Delia said. Barbara and Adam looked shocked, so she played to the crowd: “Oh, he was a beast! They say the arguments he got into with her were just terrible, tormented her all the time. And worst of all- for years, he put his own name on all those paintings. But they were all her own work!”

“So he stole her voice, and tormented her day and night,” Barbara said softly. “I guess her and Lydia had a lot to talk about.”

“Oh,” Delia said, going quiet. “I…see what you mean.” She swallowed loudly and began sorting through the pictures again. “Where is Lydia, is she all right?”

“She’s at the library,” Adam said, not wanting to reveal their motives. “Homework. So, what can you tell us about that weird one there, the guy with the jar?” Adam said, pointing to a photo of Knoll.

“Oh, my god,” Delia sighed, no longer gossipy but shaking her head in disbelief. “Knoll Phillips. I remember when this guy hit it big. He was a little nobody and he used to look and act like it, too. People only knew him because his first wife, Erica, was doing kinetic sculpture, which was very hot at the time. A lot of critics had their eye on her, and she knew it. If you like that sort of thing,” Delia sniffed.

“Lydia said Knoll was very, um, unpleasant,” Barbara prompted.

“How?” she asked, her eyebrows shooting up.

“She said he was rude,” Adam replied.

“Fame went to his head,” Delia said, nodding. “The minute he had some respect, he started beating everyone over the head with it. And his second wife, the only one who would show his work- _there’s_ a guy who got pushed around by his first wife and takes it out on poor wife number two. I saw the whole ugly story myself. All because of that stupid jar.”

“You mean part two,” Adam said, leaning over on nothing in particular. He pointed over Delia’s shoulder to the photo of the sculpture.

“No, the first one,” Delia said in a hollow voice. “I saw it. The second one’s nothing compared to the first one. I didn’t want to go that night, but my friends insisted- none of us knew what we were seeing. It was like a…even after meeting you two, and seeing what we’ve seen, I still can’t describe that thing.”

Barbara looked over at Adam, who nodded. This was a side of Delia they’d never seen, unless she was screaming in fear.

“It made my teeth itch,” she continued, her voice shaking. “Like some people when they see the holes in lotus pods.* Do you know what I mean?”

Barbara nodded. “They always used to make me feel a little uneasy.”

“No wonder Erica left him,” Delia said, with a very theatrical shudder.

“Left him? Why?” Adam asked.

“Oh, that type, no one on either side ever gives a reason,” Delia said. “He seemed…happy she was gone, took up with Periwinkle right away. A mutual friend of ours mentioned Erica was cheating on Knoll, too. Ugly stuff.”

“Are you sure she left him? Maybe it was the other way around,” Barbara suggested.

“Oh! Listen to this,” she said, whispering to Barbara as if they were gossiping about their classmates. “ _Everyone_ said she left him. People said he humiliated her, drove her to madness, that she never wanted to show her face in the art world again.”

“Well, I was going to say, maybe he killed her,” Adam said.

They had expected Delia to incorporate this into the performance that was her life, but were confused when she just…stopped. Didn’t take the bait; it was like a candle inside her had been blown out. “I hope you’re wrong,” she said quietly.

Barbara got her feet on the floor and rose up.

“Delia, we’re only telling you this because it’s a family matter that affects all of us,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “But Lydia thinks this man did kill his first wife, and may be emotionally abusing Periwinkle.”

“So if there’s anything more you know about it, tell her. And we can see about going to the police. She’s been obsessed since the art show and we’re worried about her,” Adam said. He stood up and joined his wife. They both braced themselves: Delia was unpredictable on a good day and a volcano of emotion on a bad one. She might accuse Lydia of taking attention away from her, of making things up. But again, she actually looked concerned.

“I don’t want her getting involved in this,” Delia said firmly. “There’s always been something ‘off’ about that man.”

“Delia, Lydia is worried about Periwinkle,” Adam said. He and Barbara explained about the self-harm marks Lydia had seen on Periwinkle’s arms. They were shocked that Delia actually seemed to be putting her stepdaughter’s needs into consideration.

“Hey,” Lydia called, pushing the door open. “I’m back from the li- oh.” Delia’s mere presence had made Lydia shut down and throw up all her barriers again: she lowered her head and moved her backpack in front of her.

“It’s ok,” Adam said. “She actually knows about him, Lydia. I think she wants to help.”

“Who do you think you are?” Delia said, getting up and confronting Lydia. “Is this another little phase of yours, this detective work? Another bid for attention? You’re asking for trouble.”

“You’re the one who never stops begging for attention,” Lydia said venomously.

“That’s enough!” Barbara said. “Now, listen- I think what Delia is trying to say is, she’s worried about you. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Delia said sullenly, fiddling with the very long earrings she wore.

“What do you know?” Lydia said. “You looked like you were avoiding Knoll, but you were spying on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. Tell me what you know about him.”

Wearily, Delia went back to the chair and beckoned the three housemates around her, to be her audience. They had grown used to it, but were still getting used to this somber version of Delia. Between this and Lydia’s excitement at solving a murder, it was almost like the two of them had swapped places. Delia crossed her legs and took a deep breath, as if she were reciting a police confession: “It was a party, years before Knoll got famous. Before the jar, and before he got a regular spot with Periwinkle. She was still an up-and-comer. That was who I wanted to be. Everyone couldn’t stop talking about that film she directed. Knoll was still with Erica, and they were trying to get in good with Periwinkle. Knoll followed her like a lost puppy, and she encouraged him, like a friend. Erica was off talking to one of the producers of the film, saying how she’d always wanted to be a production designer. But Periwinkle also had a boyfriend then- some guy from Haiti, or someplace like that, he was a guitarist. When he showed up, Knoll looked heartbroken. So, then Knoll saw I was alone- this was also before I met Charles- and Knoll sat down next to me, asked my name. He looked really messed up, and I could tell he had a little too much to drink, but I wanted to tell _anyone_ about my work. So I started talking to him, but he put his hand on my thigh and…he wouldn’t take it off, even when I told him to. I asked if he was listening to me at all, and he just said ‘Can’t you take a compliment?’ ‘Your wife is right there,’ I said. I couldn’t understand how he- but he just laughed, very cold, and said, ‘Do you think she cares?’ And he kept moving his hand up…but one of my friends came by, so I finally got up and left.”

“Did he do anything else?” Adam asked.

“That was enough,” Delia said, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Barbara nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Lydia said quietly. “Now I _know_ we have to catch this guy. Are you gonna go check him out?” she asked Barbara and Adam. “I made copies of the clippings I found. You can take them with you.”

“We’ll go first thing tomorrow,” Adam promised.

“Are you in, too?” Lydia asked Delia. “I need someone to help me out on this end. He’s….whacked, but maybe we can stop him from going after anyone else.”

“Maybe I should,” Delia said quietly. “Don’t…do anything idiotic.”

“I won’t if you won’t.” Lydia held out her hand, and for the first time she could remember, she and her stepmother shook hands- but not because they were being forced to, because they were partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *If you like the body horror/distorted faces in Beetlejuice, google Cindy Sherman.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Barbara travel to the Netherworld.

“This might be the biggest mistake we ever made,” Adam said, as they prepared to draw a door and go into the netherworld.

“If we didn’t keep making mistakes, we wouldn’t have met Lydia,” Barbara reminded him.

“Well that is true,” Adam said, finishing the last of the 3 lines with his chalk. He smiled at his wife and said: “Ok, here’s to being detectives.” Together they pushed the new door open and walked through.

Barbara and Adam soon found themselves back in the waiting room, with the ever-present assortment of misfits and lost souls waiting to be called forth to their caseworkers. They tried not to look too closely at Miss Argentina- since she and Periwinkle shared the same terrible secret, Periwinkle might end up passing an eternity in this very same place. There were some new faces in the waiting room, of course: a bellhop with legs like spaghetti who said he fell down an elevator shaft, a woman who’d expired while playing lawn darts and a little boy who’d burned a hole in his stomach while eating Pop Rocks and Coke- he still had the can of Coke in his hand and candy around his mouth. The woman with a lawn dart through her forehead seemed to be looking after the little boy. “Can you take me home now?” he asked her with a sniffle.

“It’s all right, Bobby,” the woman with the darts said as the little boy fidgeted in his chair. 

“He’s adorable,” Barbara said with a smile.

“Thanks, but he’s not mine. I’m not sure if they’ll let him stay with me,” the woman said worriedly, absently staring up at the dart embedded in her forehead. There were three more in her cheek. “He can’t be off by himself. He’s only five, he says.” 

“I’m this,” the little boy said, holding up a pink little hand. “Five.”

“You have kids?” the woman asked Barbara. “I didn’t get a chance.”

“Same here,” Barbara said ruefully. “But my husband and I are…fostering someone. And it’s been a great experience!” She smiled at Bobby. “You ok, buddy?”

“She’s nice,” Bobby said softly, hugging the woman’s brown neck.

“Lewis, Kymani, party of one?” asked the flattened man, rolling in on the overhead track. The woman raised her hand, while Bobby climbed on her lap and hid his face with fear. “Is that Nozkowski, Bobby, there with you?” Kymani nodded. “Well, you’ll have to see Juno about that, along with the other particulars. Come with me.”

“We need to see Juno too,” Adam said. “Could we all go in together?”

“It’s one at a time!” the flattened man said impatiently. “You both know that.”

Bobby began crying and wailing, pointing at the flattened man. “Make it go away,” he begged Kymani.

“Step back,” she told the flattened man. “You heard him. You’re scaring him.”

“You’re not responsible for him,” the flat man warned. “He’ll have to stay with a grandparent.”

“This kid doesn’t know his own grandparents, probably,” she said firmly. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

“We’ve all got a case of the Mondays,” the man said in exasperation as he rolled back out on his track without a goodbye.

Kymani turned to Barbara and Adam: “You can follow me. Wait outside and I’ll hold the door for you. She’ll have to let you in.”

Barbara and Adam followed their new friends and waited outside while Kymani brought Bobby in to see Juno. It was easy to hear their caseworker from outside the door- she sounded as cantankerous as ever.

“Well, if you want to take care of him, you’ll have to split your sentence with his,” Juno said. “Until it’s up for him- OR his father, mother or sister comes to claim him. Understand? One day in his house, one day in your sister’s yard. That’s how it’ll go.”

“And I still have my 3 vouchers?” they heard the young woman ask.

“Yes, for his sake, we’ll just put it in the records and not count this time. He’d only get into trouble wandering around by himself. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a lot of clients to see today.” The door opened with a sharp crack, and Kymani held it open for the Maitlands, beckoning them in as Bobby clung to her legs.

“Thank you,” Barbara whispered.

“Bye-bye,” Bobby said softly. There was cigarette smoke wafting around the gaping hole in his stomach, and he gave a little cough.

Barbara and Adam rushed inside the office, and Juno frowned at them over the grinning wound in her neck. “You two again! I was hoping I wouldn’t see you for another few decades. Don’t tell me you….”

“No, no,” Adam said quickly. “He’s not around. We’re sure.”

“Well, that’s a relief!” She took a drag on one of her ever-present cigarettes, and Barbara thought they smelled even worse than she remembered. Most smells seemed stronger in the netherworld, she thought. “But you don’t have an appointment! You’re not using your vouchers!”

“Juno,” Barbara began, “we don’t personally need help. We’re trying to help someone whose life may be in danger.”

“You know you’re not supposed to let anybody know about us,” she said, flinty-eyed. “And I’m not here to babysit you two.”

“If we stop someone from dying,” Adam said quickly, “wouldn’t that cut down on all the paperwork around here? You wouldn’t have so many civil service positions to fill.” 

“By their own hand?” Juno said softly. Adam nodded. She seemed to stop and consider the possibility. She shook her head, peering through the blinds behind her desk. Abruptly, she turned back around and dismissed the Maitlands with a flick of her cigarette ash. “Well, you know, your case already isn’t looking too good. You let _him_ out, and you already had a 125-year sentence on your hands.”

“We solved every problem we created- we put him back!” Barbara said proudly.

“Oh, for now!” Juno said. 

‘We won’t bother you again,” Adam said, “if you tell us where to find this one person.”

“All we have to do is talk to her, and find out if her ex-husband killed her,” said Barbara. “If we can prove it, we’ll be saving at least one person from getting murdered or a possible suicide.” 

“Wait just a minute,” Juno said. “You would be solving an unsolved murder?”

“Not just that,” Adam said. “A disappearance.”

“Fair enough,” she sighed, a puff of smoke exiting her neck. “Look: if that murder was never solved, his victim won’t getting be all the benefits she’s entitled to in the afterlife. That ends up affecting both their sentences. We would need a full documentation of the murder, and the easiest way to do that is to cross-check the records on earth with the accounts of both parties. Unsolved murders are a logistical nightmare around here!”

“So you’ll let us help?” Adam said excitedly.

“I don’t like this,” Juno said, her tone firm. “But if you could get it out of my hair, you’d save us all a lot of agony.” She went to her desk and took out a green form, and a yellow one. ‘If you get the victim to sign this form…and fill out this other one when the murder goes public, and you can get them certified, nobody has to know about this. I’ll make sure you get back on the same day you left- I don’t want this gap in the information to be too big. Got it?”

“Thank you!” Adam cried. “You won’t regret it.”

“Thank you so much,” said Barbara. Juno moved some papers aside on her desk and took out an old rotary-dial phone. Her old, gnarled hands dialed a couple numbers and she waited for the other end up pick up.

“Hello?” she rasped. “Personnel? I need to arrange for a visitation. Yes, it’s authorized. We can have it done in an hour!” There was a pause, and Juno turned to her two clients. “Well, what’s her name? Do you know her code?”

“What code?” Adam asked.

“Her name is Erica Phillips,” Barbara said.

“You don’t know the code!” Juno spluttered. ‘Give me the month and year of death, and the city she died in!”

“1986,” Adam said quickly. ‘February, I think.”

“New York, New York,” Barbara added. “Soho.”

Juno nodded. “Do you have an Erica Phillips, D-2/86, L-10012? You do. Code 849? Well, bring her in now and let’s get it do- I DON’T HAVE TO GIVE YOU A REASON!” she screamed at the clerk on the phone. “I’ve been doing this LONGER than you’ve been decomposing! If I need to cross-check information on the circumstances of death, that’s my business!”

Juno hung up the phone and gruffly said: “They found her. I’ll take you to visitation booth 4. You have an hour and that’s it. Make sure one of you takes notes.”

Barbra quickly asked to borrow a pen and paper, and Juno reluctantly handed them over.

“I kind of hope we’re wrong about all this,” Adam whispered in his wife’s ear as they walked out of the office down a long, spiral stairway to the booths. The sickly glow of the netherworld made everything look rotten, every moment uneasy. 

“Me too,” Barbara said.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hi,” Lydia said, looking up from the dishes she was doing and over her shoulder. Delia had come back into the kitchen after only 20 minutes. Usually, Delia grabbed her after-dinner espresso and would go work on her artwork until she finally fell asleep in front of the TV or in bed with Charles, so Lydia was surprised to see her. Her coffee cup was in hand, too, stranger still. Lydia knew that her studio usually had at least three dirty espresso cups in it at any given time.

“I was just going to wash out my cup,” Delia said. She awkwardly looked around the room, as if she wasn’t sure the house was hers, or what she was doing there.

“Just give it to me,” Lydia sighed. “I’ll finish.”

“Well…” Delia looked around. “Your father cooked dinner, so I’ll do the dishes. Besides, my espresso set is very delicate, I’d rather wash it myself.”

Lydia’s first instinct was to say something like “You hate doing housework! Who’s possessing your body this time?” But ever since Delia had opened up and told her about Knoll, Lydia was finding it a little harder to be angry with her. And she _had_ offered to help. “Ok,” Lydia said, stepping back from the sink and drying her hands on a dishtowel. “Thanks. I kind of have a headache, ever since the show. Didn’t you get one too?”

After putting her cup in the sink, Delia looked at her nails and then quickly put on a pair of dish gloves. “I did,” Delia said. “I kept hearing this noise, like glasses clinking. It went right through my head.” As she set to work, Lydia thought: _She might end up breaking those dishes._ She decided to stick around and watch Delia, so she got out a notebook and started scribbling some notes about the case.

“His cooking’s getting better,” Delia said with a little laugh. “Our plates are cleaner than usual.” Delia had almost never laughed at anything, not for real, until they had started living with the Maitlands instead of fighting with them. So this actually made Lydia smile. Charles had been saying Chinese takeout was too expensive and that Lydia’s hands were full with other chores, so he had eagerly begun teaching himself how to cook. That night’s dish had been beef stew: a little tough, but well seasoned. “Dad’s a lot better than me,” Lydia offered. “Even I wouldn’t touch the chicken parm I tried to make. Remember how it got stuck to the pan?”

“You’re both way ahead of me. Lucky us.” Delia was actually smiling as she started on scrubbing her next dish. “What are you writing?” Delia asked. She didn’t sound accusatory, not this time.

“It…it’s nothing,” Lydia said, still feeling protective of her bond with Barbara and Adam.

The dishes were almost done, forks and spoons clinking and drowning out the rubbery balloon sound of dish gloves. “I thought it might be about the thing you asked me to help you with,” Delia said, keeping her head down over the sink.

“It is,” Lydia said. “I’m writing stuff down about the case.” Her stepmother looked over at her and Lydia ventured: “Do you wanna talk it over a little?”

“This isn’t going to be like what happened last year,” Delia said, a sharp warning in her voice. “You have to promise me that.”

“I promise. No one from over there is coming here except Adam and Barbara.”

Delia finished the dishes and hastily removed her gloves. “Tell me what you have.”

As the worn, lined pages of the marble notebook opened, Lydia began talking excitedly, overlapping herself: “So here’s where I run into a problem: we figure out how she died, and if it’s really her head. But we can’t go to the police because the only evidence we have is in the jar. They would need a warrant or something, right? To search the gallery and look in the jar. It’s a cold case after 3 years. We need to trick him into confessing somehow, or into revealing the evidence. If we could get someone to open the jar, people would see it was a human head. I was gonna try and do it.”

“You?” Delia whispered. “By yourself? I don’t want you mixed up with that man.”

There was an awkward pause. “I have seen worse,” Lydia said, in what they both knew was a weak attempt at humor.

“I don’t want your father to know, that would make this death by a thousand cuts,” Delia sighed. “And Otho can’t know. We’d better keep it just the four of us.”

“I wonder how they’re doing,” Lydia said. “I hope they’re ok over there.”

* * *

The Maitlands found themselves sitting in what looked like a prison visitation booth: a divider made of thick plastic. The center was filled with little holes to speak through, in a pattern like a shower drain. The divider had a metal base and a ledge on each side at chest level. This ledge was where Barbara balanced her notebook and looked directly into the neck hole of none other than Erica Phillips. Despite having been killed in a particularly brutal way and dead for three years, Erica still had a certain allure. Her long, curly hair was waterlogged and looked more black than reddish- brown; the full lips on her regal face were now blue, partly from the liquid in the jar. She still wore the beautiful embroidered Chinese robe she had died in, and her long elaborate earrings. Her earrings had rusted, and her robe was stained with the same blue liquid.

Seeing Erica’s shapely head balanced in her lap, Adam gulped and said: “I don’t mean to be rude, but…I guess it really was murder, after all?”

“You’re direct, aren’t you?” Erica said in her refined British accent. “I like that in a man.” As she laughed softly, blue liquid welled up through the several knife wounds in her chest and torso, and of course, out of her neck. “Don’t worry,” she archly said to Barbara. “I’m not flirting with your husband.”

“No, I was staring at your wounds,” Barbara said. She had recognized the poisonous-looking blue liquid from photos of the jar. It smelled like paint thinner to her.

“Fair enough,” the former Mrs. Phillips said, holding her head up to the divider so she could speak more easily. “Are you two really going to solve my murder? You don’t look like you’d be up to scratch as detectives.”

“I’ll tell you this,” Barbara said. “We’ve been dead a shorter time than you, but whoever cut off your head sure did a messy job. He hacked and hacked away at your neck- I guess it was your ex-husband, Knoll?”

Erica laughed again, making blue liquid rush from the holes in the two halves of her neck. “Yes, but you didn’t need much to figure that out. What else can you tell me?”

Barbara said: “I’m guessing he did it quickly, he was angry. Even when I pretended to cut Adam’s head off,” she said, pointing to her husband, “I was careful, even though I’d never done it before. Still got a cleaner line than this, even though I used a knife. Did Knoll use a knife?”

Erica said: “I must admit, you two are full of surprises. You wouldn’t think it to look at you.”

“Mrs. Phillips, you have no idea of what we’re capable of,” Adam said, thinking of how he’d learned to turn his face inside out, how he’d returned from aging to dust and how his wife had tamed a sandworm.

Erica paused and put her head back on her shoulders with a squishing sound. She fussed with it a little, then seemed satisfied and sat back, relaxing her shoulders. “Please, call me Erica. And you are Adam and Barbara…from Connecticut? How did you get mixed up with me?”

“In your artist days, did you know a woman named Delia? She’d have been going by her maiden name then…” Erica nodded, and Adam explained their living situation, Delia’s recent show with Knoll- and the first meeting of the two artists.

“I do remember something of that, she was a friend of a friend and Knoll was sniffing around after her because he couldn’t get close to Periwinkle,” Erica said. “If you ask me, your Delia never had much talent.”

The Maitlands exchanged concerned looks. Delia had never been their favorite person, and their tastes were never going to match hers. They even had to admit that Delia’s art was probably a platform for her to sell _herself_. But hearing one of Delia’s peers roast her like that felt almost painful to them- especially knowing what had happened to Delia at that party. And she really had been much nicer these past few months…“That’s not why we’re here,” Adam said. “Where are you serving your sentence? It’s in the jar, isn’t it? That’s why you’re blue.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Erica said wryly. “Yes. And I must say, it’s nice to have the rest of me back, even if I’m stuck in here.”

“But why?” Adam said. There was a gooseneck lamp on his side of the divider, and he moved it to shine in Erica’s face. He had seen cops in old movies and on TV do that, when they tried to get someone to confess. “Why did he do it?”

“I was jealous of his success, but I knew there was something sinister about the thing in the first jar,” Erica said. She leaned forward, blue liquid dripping from her mouth and spraying the divider. The paint thinner smell grew stronger. “I tried to destroy it, whatever it was. There was a struggle, and he finished me off instead.”

“My God,” Adam said, turning to his wife with a stricken look on his face. “We can’t let Lydia go after him alone.”

Barbara collected herself and said: “Would you mind signing this form?” Barbara rolled the paper up and stuck it through one of the little holes. Erica smiled and removed a waterlogged pen from her robe pocket. The robe hung on her body in an awkward way, despite being baggy. She pushed the form back through the hole, once it was signed. Barbara handed it to Adam, who put it in the pocket of his flannel shirt. “Lydia still has us,” Barbara whispered to him. She then looked to Erica and asked: “Can you help trick him into confessing?” Barbara asked Erica. “What would make him admit that he killed you?”

“He’d never admit it,” Erica scoffed. “He acts so hard and arrogant, but deep down, he’s still insecure. He knows his masterpiece wasn’t his own work and he’s got blood on his hands. I see how he stares at me and lashes out at his new wife. If he could find a way to blame my death on her, he’d probably do it.”

“Why is he insecure? Were you seeing someone else, like Delia said?” Barbara asked.

Erica laughed. “I was. That probably helped in him wanting to kill me. I know that’s why he was going after other women. I suppose I deserved him being angry at me….but tell me,” she said, her voice going quiet, “do you think I deserved this?” She parted her long robe and opened it slightly. The Maitlands were taken aback, and wanted to tell her to put her clothes on. But instead of a wound, or just her naked body, they saw something attached to her rib cage like a leech. No, more like a parasitic twin- it was pale white tinged with the blue color of the liquid, much like Erica’s own skin. It was roughly the size and shape of a human brain, but its lines were too irregular to be a brain. Brains didn’t have that smooth, slightly bloated surface, or those odd protrusions that looked like twisted limbs. Worst of all was one tumor-like growth that looked like a little marble. And brains didn’t grow tufts of matted black hair, or nestle against a woman’s torso like a hideous parody of nursing.

The Maitlands held their breath, breath they hadn’t needed for over a year.

“Oh, it’s the thing from the first jar. That looks uncomfortable,” Barbara said at last. ‘I thought you were flashing us.”

“So it fused with you because you died trying to kill it, I guess? Does it bother you when you’re sleeping?” asked Adam.

“You’re not shocked?” Erica said, sounding a little disappointed. “Not even disgusted, or upset?”

“I told you, we’re full of surprises,” Adam said. ‘So what is it?”

“I still don’t know!” Erica said, her eyes rolling wildly. “That’s the worst of it!”

Juno came by and tapped Adam on the shoulder. ‘Your time’s up,” she said. Seeing Erica’s robe open, she added: “Put that away, sunshine. The interview’s over.”

“Is there a way we can contact you, in case we need your help?” Adam asked Erica.

“Oh, no,” Juno said, warning them. “I told you, this is a one-time deal.”

“But we’d be solving the murder,” Barbara said. “Think of all the work we’re saving you.”

“You can use a cartouche,” Erica said to Barbara.

“No, I’m not making any more allowances for these two,” Juno said with a scowl. “They’ve had their chance. Time to go. ” She snapped her fingers.

“A what?” Barbara asked. She felt the folding chair she was sitting in trying to buck her off, like a mechanical bull. Adam had already been thrown out of his chair.

“It’s in the handbook!” Erica called, but then she vanished, with a final splash of blue water left behind on the floor. With a yelp, Barbara was thrown to the floor and suddenly found herself, Adam, and Juno in front of the door they had entered through.

“Hand over that form,” Juno said, holding out her hand. “The green one. You can drop off the yellow one later.”

“First,” Barbara said, holding Adam back, “Tell us. What did Erica mean when she said ‘a cartouche’. Is that something in the handbook we should know about?” Adam kept his hand protectively over his pocket.

“You’d know if you read it,” Juno said sourly. “Fine, look it up if you want to. But you’ll have a lot to answer for if you screw it up!”

Adam took the form out of his pocket. He held it up out of her reach. “Are you saying we might be able to leave the house after all?”

‘Not in any meaningful way,” Juno said. Adam pressed her, but she said: “Hand over the form now, or you’ll never have the chance to find out!” Barbara and Adam remembered the threat of ‘death for the dead,’ so Adam reluctantly handed the paper over.

The door behind them blew open and suddenly, they were back in the attic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara and Adam discover they may have a way to leave the house

When Barbara and Adam returned home, she grabbed the handbook and started leafing through it while Adam rounded up the other two women of the house for an emergency meeting. Charles was sleeping in his room, so Delia and Lydia tiptoed upstairs and took a seat, wanting to know how the meeting went. Barbara leafed through the index of the book until she found the pages she needed (she didn’t know if ‘cartouche’ began with C or K) , and kept reading while Adam summed up what had happened with Juno and Erica.

“So that was the tapping we heard!” Lydia cried, gesturing toward Delia. “Erica’s ghost was tied to the jar, trying to get out!”

“What are you talking about?” Delia said. Her red mouth was pursed in distaste.

“That’s why we had headaches at your show,” Lydia explained. “I’ve always been able to sense ghosts, and I think you can sense them everywhere now. I guess living with them got your brain used to it, or something. Like getting a vaccine of a watered-down disease so the disease won’t hurt you!”

“You mean I can sense them anytime? All over the place?” Delia didn’t look too comfortable with the idea. “Well, at least I was right. There always something off about Knoll Phillips.”

“Erica says there’s no chance he’ll confess,” Adam finished. 

“That’s ok,” Lydia said, nodding and looking thoughtful. “I found a way around that.”

“You do?” Delia said.

“We draw him out. Here’s my plan: we need to rob the gallery,” Lydia said. “If we knock the jar over, the cops will come and they’ll see it’s Erica’s head in there. They won’t need a warrant. Everyone will know then.”

“Wha….uh, Lydia,” Adam said. He shut his eyes and put his hand up, as if to direct his thoughts. “First of all, that’s technically burglary. My dad taught me the difference, he was a court clerk. Robbery is when you have a gun pointed at someone and say, ‘hand over the money’. Secondly-”

“No, no guns!” Lydia said hurriedly. “Nothing like that.”

“I don’t think we need to steal anything,” Barbara said, her heart-shaped mouth tilting into a disappointed frown. 

‘We’d only take Delia’s work,” Lydia said. “I mean, if it’s ok with her…that way, we’re not actually stealing at all. We’d even put it back later.”

“Are you insane?” Delia spluttered.

“No, listen,” Lydia said. “If there’s all that work and only YOUR work gets stolen, think of all the free publicity you’d get!”

For a moment, Delia was frozen, thinking. No one in the household, not even Charles, was exactly sure how she arrived at her crazy ideas. But now Lydia and the Maitlands could see it in her eyes, the pieces coming together. “Yes,” she whispered. “Everyone would be asking, ‘why her? Someone must have wanted her art badly enough to take it.’ And my name would be on the news! Finally, a little momentum after ‘Art in America…’ it’s not stealing,” she said, laughing, her eyes lighting up, “if I steal from myself! And when we ‘find’ the pieces again, we’ll get a much better price!” She was laughing with her whole body now, over the moon.

Adam sighed thoughtfully and said, “You know, I built models with my dad…and I love that you two gals have a project you want to do together, even if it is, uh, burglary. But you might get caught. What does Charles-”

‘He can never know!” Delia blurted out. “He’d never stand for it.”

“She’s right,” Lydia said. “This never leaves the attic.”

“He might be interested because you do stand to profit off this, Delia,” Barbara said. “Actually, do you have someone to drive a getaway car?”

“Honey!” Adam said incredulously. “Why are you encouraging them?”

“But they’re right, it’s not stealing- it’s like a police sting,” she said excitedly.

“There’s one thing,” Delia said. “Knoll’s wife owns the gallery. If he says jump, she says ‘how high’. If someone knocks that jar over, they’ll hide the evidence before the police can get anywhere near him.” 

“I thought of that too,” Lydia said proudly. “I’m going to move it, hide it where the police would be sure to look, and take the lid off. They’ll smell it. And then the police will have to analyze what’s in the jar.”

“What if you get caught?” Adam said. “People get caught for the littlest things all the time, like fingerprints.”

‘The gallery does have a security system,” Delia said warily. “An alarm, cameras…”

“Two people here can’t leave fingerprints, trip an alarm or get caught on camera,” Barbara said excitedly. “Adam, no one would ever suspect us. We have to help.”

“Two people here can’t leave the _house!_ ” Delia said. “Have you forgotten how we ended up in this situation in the first place?”

“There is a way,” Barbara said, holding up the book. “The problem is…if I’m reading this right…it only lasts for three minutes, and what we can do is limited. And it can only be cast by a loved one…..who then needs to pass the spell onto another loved one of the deceased, if they ever want to do the spell again.”

“That’s right!” Lydia said. “I didn’t think three minutes was enough time to make a difference before. But I mean,your relatives can’t cast it. You’d get in trouble if I told them.”

“No,” Adam said suddenly. “Lydia, you could cast that spell yourself. A loved one? That’s you. But you’re right, three minutes might not be enough time.”

“He’s right,” Barbara said. She spoke urgently to her husband, but there was a brightness to her that he didn’t see so often anymore, unless Lydia was around. “I’m starting to think that maybe we’re not so limited after all, being like this. Maybe there’s a lot we can do, even if we’re living in a different world. Don’t you want to find out?”

“I know I do,” Lydia said with a smile.

Adam sighed. “Tell me how it works,” he said. Delia and Lydia listened raptly as Barbara perched on the arm of Adam’s chair- hovering slightly off it- and read from the handbook:

“A Cartouche is a way for ghosts to be summoned to a specific location, by a loved one. The deceased must have established contact with the loved one by an ethical channel, without exposing full knowledge of Netherworld practices pursuant to Mandate of the Deceased 583 (see Viking Funerals). If a loved one takes the name of the deceased and engraves it on a clay tablet, they can be summoned to a specific location for no longer than three minutes- provided their full name is written, as in accordance with Mandate of the Deceased 21 (see Ancient Egypt), in an oval to protect them from evil spirits. They will be summoned once the inscription on the tablet is finished, and the oval is completed around the name.”

“Well, we certainly need those ovals,” Adam said softly.

Barbara continued: “Once summoned, the tablet may only be used once by the loved one, and the deceased, although manifested, will not be able to effect change on living persons or animals. Only to the eye of the loved one will they be visible. They will be able to pass through solid nonliving objects, but only if they so choose. They are forbidden to kill, and will not….uh, have full sexual functionality. Violations of these two ordinances will be swiftly punished.”

“Guess a lot of people were really horny after they grieved,” Lydia muttered.

“After three minutes are up, the tablet will break and cannot be used again, and the deceased will return to their original point of manifestation to continue their sentence. This practice is not recommended for those unfamiliar with the supernatural.” There was a little diagram of a cartouche at the bottom of the page, and Barbara showed it to her family, turning the book to face them.

“Oh yeah,” Lydia said. “The Egyptians used those tablets to protect dead people in the afterlife. I remember that from the first time I looked through the handbook.” She looked relieved. Hopeful. The Maitlands loved seeing her this way, so full of life. And they had to admit, they did like the sound of being somewhere other than the netherworld or their house for three minutes.

“My sculptures are very heavy,” Delia groused. “You think you can move them without damaging them?”

“We’ll move them to a wall and push them through,” Adam said. “Then you can just put them in the car.” Delia seemed satisfied with this and gave a vague nod.

“Where do we hide the jar?” Lydia asked Delia frantically. “Where would the police think to look…but not Knoll and Periwinkle?

Delia thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “Periwinkle keeps a big safe in her office. If Barbara or Adam could get the jar inside it, without touching the lock or unlocking her office door, they would never suspect a thing. But the police would search the whole gallery, including the safe.”

“We have to hope they don’t open that safe,” Adam said. “It’s a gamble.”

“We can’t gamble with Periwinkle’s life,” Lydia said. “Her husband already is. Come on, Delia- you know she doesn’t deserve this!”

“You’re right,” Delia said quietly. “Well, this is it, then.”

“Remember, you absolutely cannot get caught,” said Barbara, as if she were warning Lydia not to stay out past her curfew. “We’re not sending you to juvie.” 

“Barbara,” Adam said wearily, “you’re making it sound like burglary isn’t wrong unless someone gets caught…”

“I can’t believe you’re really gonna help me,” Lydia said softly. “Well, I believe it, because it’s you guys…but I’m used to Dad just shutting me down on stuff that bothers me.” Then she turned to Delia. “And I’m glad you’re here too.”

“Of course,” Delia said, looking a little lost in the headlights.

“We’ll talk to Charles in the morning, together,” Adam suggested. “For now, I think you and Delia should get some rest.”

“That,” Delia said, rising and stretching, “is a very good idea. See you all after I’ve had my coffee.” With that, she headed down the stairs and off to her room.

Lydia smiled at the Maitlands. “Good night, guys. Thanks.” And as she turned to go, Barbara put her arm around Adam’s shoulder. The Maitlands were alone in the attic again, but they didn’t feel lonely.

“I don’t know about all this, honey,” Adam said softly. “This is…a lot. Even for us.”

“I think we’re going to be ok,” his wife replied. “Sure, we never thought we’d be bringing a murderer in. But we thought we’d never have a family, and we found Lydia. And there were so many times we thought we’d never be happy again, but all things considered, we are!”

Adam took Barbara in his arms and gently kissed her face. “Thank you for reminding me why I love you.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey, Dad?” Lydia said, peeking over the comics page where Charles was currently reading “Marmaduke.” “We’re having a family meeting after breakfast. We need to ask you about something.”

Charles looked up in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what? I’m the only one who ever calls for a family meeting around here. You said that made us sound like a cult.”

Lydia looked at her father. His moon face looked so trusting, so unaware of what she was really going to tell him. “Yeah, I know, but we have something to tell you.”

Charles cast his paper down next to his mug of coffee and looked heartsick. “Lydia…you’re not in _trouble_ , are you? I mean with a boy.”

“What? Dad, no!” Lydia snapped. Why did her father have to be so embarrassing?

“But this isn’t about…ghosts, and that sort of thing?” he said warily.

“Not really…”

“Not REALLY?” Charles said. He rose from his chair. “I think you better explain just what you mean by that.”

Delia entered the kitchen, espresso in hand and a sleeping mask on her brow. “I’ll help. It’s something Lydia and I thought of together,” she said.

“You two…? I really have missed something,” Charles said. Delia led him into the living room and sat him down.

“Oh, God,” Charles groaned after the rest of the household explained their plan. “I feel a migraine coming on.”

“This will be good for us, think of all the plans we can make once my publicity starts rolling in!” Delia said. 

“No! I can’t aid my own wife and daughter in a criminal act!”

“How many times do I have to say it?” Delia cried. “Stealing from yourself is not stealing!”

“You’d just be driving the car,” Lydia said. “It’ll be really easy, Dad. The four of us can handle everything else.”

“What about a security system?” Charles said. “Did any of you think about that?”

“Well, inside, no problem, since it’ll be us,” Barbara said. “And no one will see Delia and Lydia outside, because I’ll be messing up the cameras inside while Adam hides the jar. As for outside…Delia?”

“There are some closed-circuit cameras outside the gallery,” Delia said. She held up a chart she had made from memory. “One is in the back, and one is right outside the front door. “So Lydia says if I pretend to be a robber and Lydia sits on my shoulders, also pretending to be a robber, we can take it out with spray paint.”

“Delia, I hate saying this, but this time I think you’ve really gone too far.”

“I think Knoll murdering his wife is going too far,” Delia said.

“I mean,” Charles said, “can’t we just give an anonymous tip to the police?”

“They’ll ignore us, Dad. Or they’ll wanna do what you wanted, and turn Barbara and Adam into sideshow freaks,” Lydia said.

“I…think that’s a little harsh,” Charles said, but then he saw Adam and Barbara giving him very pointed looks. “No,” he said quickly. “You’re right, we certainly can’t have that. We’re all in this together!”

“Good,” Delia said quickly. “We leave tomorrow night at 10 pm, so get some rest.”

“Wait a minute,” Charles said, rising from his seat. “I meant we were going to find a solution together, I didn’t agree to this-”

“Dad,” Lydia insisted. “If you help us, we’ll be able to get out before anyone sees us. No jail time, no criminal record, lots of publicity for Delia.”

Charles sighed. “All right. C’mere, pumpkin.” He hugged Lydia and whispered: “I just hope your mother can forgive us for this, wherever she is.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heist begins.

“Make sure you stay quiet,” Delia said, pulling her ski mask down. She and Lydia were both dressed in black with a few bulky layers of Charles’s clothes on top, to make their genders a little more ambiguous. Lydia pulled her own mask down and adjusted the backpack she wore. Delia hurriedly shook a can of black spray paint and handed it over to Lydia. “What comes next?” she asked.

“Okay, run toward the camera, hold your arms out. I’m gonna run over and on three, you hoist me up onto your shoulders like we practiced.” She pointed to the camera above the front door of the gallery.

“Of course,” Delia muttered. They had practiced this several times, most of which ended with Lydia unintentionally body-slamming her stepmother. But the last two times, Delia had been able to lift her up briefly enough for her to hit the target they had erected outside. This time, Delia groaned as her arms gave out, and Lydia wasn’t able to get all of the lens painted with the spray. “That’s it,” Delia cried, struggling against her natural instinct and keeping her voice down. “I wrenched my shoulder. Not doing that again.”

“Okay, Lydia muttered. “Most important part is coming.” She took out the clay tablets, stylus and handbook. She quickly wrote the full names and drew an oval around them, then set them down and said, reading from the handbook: “Adam Richard Maitland, Barbara Jean Maitland: Rise and walk. Your hour on this earth has come again.” Her voice shook, but Adam and Barbara appeared on the front steps of the gallery. They were beaming and Barbara was actually laughing.

“We’re outside! Finally!” Barbara said.

Lydia smiled too: it was proof that she and her surrogate family truly loved one another, or else the spell would not have worked.

“We better hurry,” Adam whispered, and they ran through the door to get inside.

“All right,” Barbara said. “Delia says the controls for the security cameras are inside Periwinkle’s office. You pass through the wall and switch them off. I’ll grab the jar, take off the lid, and hide it in the office. Then we’ll move the sculptures.” They had already planned to move “Eve’s Revenge” first, in case they ran out of time to move the other pieces.

“I hope I hit the right buttons,” Adam told himself. He tried to remember Delia’s directions on how to get to the office, but everything in the gallery was distracting him a little, and the time constraint was making him nervous. Being outside his home- and away from the netherworld- for the first time in a year was more overstimulating than he’d realized. He almost ended up in the bathroom, but found the office door and stepped through the wall. He found the controls for the security system against the wall- Delia didn’t know how it worked, but Charles had theorized there was probably some sort of ‘system override’ or ‘shutdown’ button that Adam would be able to press. He found a red button marked POWER, but it didn’t seem to change the little screen that looked the one on a calculator- it still said SYSTEM RUNNING. “Damn it,” Adam muttered.

Meanwhile, Barbara was running through the gallery in her usual bare feet, thrilled to be outside her house and not blocked on all side by sandworms or morose corpses. Her feet slapped against the floor, but did not echo. Then she found the jar on top of the elaborate pedestal Knoll had made. It would be a tough climb, especially if she didn’t want to break the jar. But she did see one of the folding chairs nearby, so Barbara ran, grabbed it and brought it back to stand on top.

Outside, they were being closely watched, while Charles kept the car running several blocks away. “They only have three minutes left,” Delia muttered, looking at her watch. “If they don’t shut the system down, people will see the art moving by itself, and we’ll really be in for it then!”

“That hasn’t happened yet,” Lydia cautioned. “I mean, it’s not so bad-”

“ _You’re_ saying that to _me_?” Delia said with a brittle laugh. “You think you’re going to make me feel better? You’re the one who always walks around like she’s digging her own grave.”

“Always? You really don’t pay any attention to me, do you?” When she really looked over at her stepdaughter, for the first time that night, Delia saw something different in Lydia’s face. She wasn’t rolling her eyes or looking disdainful. She looked hurt, and Delia couldn’t remember ever seeing that before. “I have friends now. I haven’t even thought about…” Her mouth trembled, then frowned, then snapped back into its usual dour pout. “Never mind. You don’t care.”

‘I’m sorry.” It came rushing out so quickly, that Delia hadn’t even realized she’d said it. _I thought saying it would be harder than that,_ she thought.

Barbara reached over and grabbed the jar. The flimsy chair shook slightly underneath her, and she realized the wretched thing was even heavier than it looked. It almost slipped out of her hand- but instead the lid fell off and broke, tipping some of the liquid out. She carefully stepped off the chair, hoisting the jar up and trying to place her feet down carefully. Broken glass wouldn’t cut her feet, but she could still slip on the liquid. _I’ll leave the lid and spill,_ she thought. _Make them worried. Keep them guessing where it is._ But she knew that time was running out, so she ran over to the office. “Adam!” she cried, spilling blue liquid on her dress. “Did you do it?”

“I think so,” he said, and waved her over to the safe. When Barbara touched the safe door, her hand passed through the metal, and she used her other hand to push the jar in and meet the hand already inside.

“We’ve got one minute left,” Adam cried, grabbing her by the wrist. “Let’s go.” They ran through the office wall and grabbed _Eve’s Revenge_. Together, began pushing it along the floor and through the nearest outside wall. The two ghosts didn’t even notice Lydia yelling for Delia to run to the side of the building so they could grab the sculpture. But by the time they arrived and saw _Eve’s Revenge,_ Lydia knew Barbara and Adam’s time was up. There was a loud CRACK behind her, and she frantically took the backpack off. “Oh no, no,” she whispered. When she unzipped it, the two tablets had shattered into pea-sized fragments. For her friends, the trip was over and there was no chance of them being able to leave the house again for the next 124 years.

“It’s not so bad,” Delia said gently.

“You don’t feel that way. We only grabbed one of your sculptures,” Lydia snapped.

“It’s enough,” Delia said. “And I saw the cameras shut off right before Barbara grabbed the chair. We can get this guy.”

“You’re actually ok with this?” Lydia said. She shifted uncomfortably, expecting Delia to explode and lose patience with the entire plan.

“The plan worked, and I never could’ve thought of it,” Delia said with the utmost sincerity. She looked over at the large sculpture. “We better get this home. Where did your father park again?”

“Two blocks north,” Lydia said. “Maybe we can go slow…you get one side and I’ll get the other.” She bent her knees and stooped to pick up “Eve’s Revenge”, but heard her stepmother snap:

“Don’t trip and fall while you’re carrying my work. Get those bangs are out of your eyes.” 

But Lydia just smiled, knowing that even if Delia was her same old self, she could finally see a real person in her stepmother. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evidence is found.

There had been reports of strange noises outside the gallery last night, and Periwinkle could see the black spray paint all over the camera outside. But when she entered, she was cautiously optimistic. _Could have been kids playing a prank, right? Nothing’s been stolen-_ and then she saw Delia’s piece was missing. _Oh, God,_ she thought, feeling her pulse hammering harder. _The police, they have to know. But why is nothing else missing-_

And then she saw that the jar was gone.

She did not move, remaining as still as another exhibit in the gallery while her emotions warred inside her. First, the fizzing feeling of relief, a light going on behind her eyes. The… _pull_ this object had on her, it had never been as awful as the pull of the first jar. But now she was finally free of both jars, even of the memories. She raised her arms to her face, half-expecting that the cuts would be gone. The cuts she had been forced to make, for trying to come between Knoll and the first jar. She remembered how those voices from the first jar, the one that didn’t look like Erica, had clawed at her mind, saying that Knoll didn’t need her or anyone. But no; they were just as they had always been. And when she saw them, the opposite force inside her took over: the fear. _Don’t tell him,_ she thought. Her mouth was dry. The temperature in the room seemed to soar. _He’ll kill you if he finds out. You know that. Maybe he never really did need anyone…_ She walked into her office with her body on autopilot. Her eyes found the phone on her desk, and she did not remember walking toward it, picking it up or dialing 911. Periwinkle’s senses only returned as she heard the dispatcher’s voice on the line: “911, what is the nature your emergency?”

“My gallery’s been robbed!” she said. In her haste to get to the phone, Periwinkle had not noticed the dried drops of blue liquid on the white linoleum floor.

________

From the moment Periwinkle hung up with 911, the spartan gallery had been choked with cops and reporters. Delia had also been summoned by the police, and when they came to pick her up, Lydia offered them the photos she had taken as a key to a possible clue. The cops shrugged and told her to bring her pictures and take a seat next to Delia in the squad car. Charles was just happy that the police seemed oblivious as to who really committed the crime. "Good luck," he said, warily waving them off. 

“We’re gonna take you downtown, Mrs. Deetz,” the large cop driving the squad car said, his mouth a wrinkled line underneath his bushy red mustache. “For questioning, but we want to bring Mrs. Phillips in too. So we’re stopping at her place. Besides, this is gonna be a long ride, we need to recoup." 

“You're gonna get asked a few questions too, Pollyanna,” his partner said, indicating Lydia. “Be good for your mommy back there.”

“Bite me,” Lydia mouthed when his back was turned.

Delia nudged her sharply in the side. “Don’t give us away,” she whispered.

When they arrived at the gallery, Lydia did what she felt she did best- try to observe, and find details other people would overlook. She took in the sights around her, remembering Ms. Keane and the events that had brought everyone here. Another book in the Winter River library had told Lydia all about how Ms. Keane's husband had stolen credit for her work for years, until the truth came out. She must have been strong, Lydia knew, to keep going after something like that. But something told Lydia that Periwinkle needed the truth about Knoll to come out, and it wasn't an answer Periwinkle seemed able to find on her own. Soon Lydia's eyes found Periwinkle herself- looking doleful, with Knoll chain-smoking at her side. He looked unkempt, like the police and his wife had just dragged him out of bed.

“You are going to find out who did this,” he said to a female officer, who was looking harried as she took notes on the crime scene. “And you’re going to arrest them and you’re going to get back my property!”

“Ma’am,” the officer said, ignoring Knoll, “What’s the combination to your safe? And was there anything missing inside? It’s the only place we haven’t searched, and we don’t want to cut it open if we don’t have to.” This cop was built like a female pro wrestler, and probably could have bench-pressed Knoll without a thought.

“Oh, my god,” Periwinkle whispered. “I completely forgot about the safe…I hope nothing's been stolen.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Knoll said, his voice dripping with contempt for his wife. “What do you think you’re doing, Periwinkle, running a business or playing house?”

“Knoll,” she said, fighting back tears and holding herself steady, “I was mostly concerned about your piece being stolen. You know I'm as upset as you are-"

“Then stop crying and do your fucking job,” he said, advancing on her.

“All right,” the female officer said, putting down her notes and giving Knoll a hard stare. “That’s enough now. Everybody’s on edge here.” She turned to Periwinkle. “Take me to the safe and open it.”

“This way, Officer Scott,” Periwinkle said, gesturing for the policewoman to follow her.

“And what is this kid doing here?” Knoll asked loudly, pointing at Lydia.

She felt her face burning in embarrassment, but Lydia knew they had him right where they wanted- her, and her family. That gave her the strength to lift up her camera and said: “They wanted to see my pictures, as evidence. And it was my stepmom who got robbed, not just you.”

“Pictures, huh?” Knoll said. “Well, I hope you got the guy who did this.”

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Lydia said, loading the words as much as she could. 

“Hey, kid,” said the second cop from the squad car, a bald man with a patchy beard. “Where is your stepmom?'

"Oh no...." Lydia muttered under her breath. 

* * *

Delia was never quite herself without a cup of espresso, and she’d actually left the crime scene in search of one. She was mobbed by reporters outside, eager for some updates on the mysterious burglary.

“Marjorie Bota, CBS New York,” a woman with a deep, resonant voice said, shoving a microphone in Delia’s face. “Ms. Deetz, how do you feel about being at the center of the art world’s most staggering theft since the Musee Monet’s five years ago?”

“I can only say that even if the case really is unsolvable,” Delia said, milking her time in the spotlight for all it was worth, “at least I still have my creativity to console me.”

Lydia hung back on the steps, away from the prying eyes of the reporters, and shook her head. _I’ve never seen her so happy._

“When will you be donating a replacement piece to the gallery?” another reporter asked, with her interpreter speaking as she signed.

Delia looked confused, unsure to answer the woman who had been signing, or her interpreter. Lydia grimaced at her rudeness. Finally, Delia just looked at the nearest camera, saying: “I will be back as soon as possible to show my new work, and I want the thief to know- they have excellent taste!”

‘There you have it,” Ms. Bota said, speaking into her mic as she turned back to her camera. “An artist unafraid to live on the edge. An unsolvable crime, with no evidence but a trail of spray paint. This is life in the big city. Marjorie Bota, CBS 2 New York!”

“Everyone!” Officer Scott said, exiting the gallery door. “All press must clear this area immediately. We are dealing with something much bigger than a robbery. Someone’s been killed. I repeat, human remains have been found. I want this entire area locked down!”

“Did you hear that?” Delia said loudly, playing to the reporters, who quickly went into a frenzy of questions and pushing and shoving to get inside.

Lydia was able to slip inside ahead of everyone else. She knew taking pictures would be too big a risk but she had to discover the fallout of the jar being found, just so she could tell Barbara and Adam. The cops were crowded around Periwinkle’s office, blocking the door and obscuring the view inside- the view of the safe and the infamous jar. Lydia felt the pressure in her ears tighten and loosen. It was almost like a headache, but not quite. _Something strange is happening,_ Lydia thought. _Erica’s ghost must be out!_ Then she heard someone laughing, but no one was reacting to it. Lydia hung at the back of the cluster of cops outside the door, but used her small frame to situate herself between people and get jostled by the crowd. As they shifted to radio for backup, or to chase reporters away, they moved Lydia close enough to peek through the door without even realizing it. In fact, they didn’t even seem to realize she was there. _I guess the handbook’s always been right about the living,_ Lydia thought. _Still, it was probably a good call to leave my mourning hat at home._ And speaking of which, there inside the office was Erica, sitting on the desk as Officer Scott questioned Knoll and Periwinkle. Her body was pale blue and dripping wet, just as Barbara and Adam had said. Lydia could even see the open wounds in her body, and the liquid welling up inside. _Whoa, if only I could get a picture of that,_ she thought, still fascinated even after all she’d seen.

“You always were a terrible liar, Knoll,” Erica jeered. She looked over at the crowd and saw Lydia staring right at her. “Are you the little girl my ex-husband keeps asking about?” she asked Lydia. “Your parents said I might run into you.”

Lydia, not wanting to give herself away, nodded quietly and did not bother to correct Erica. “I didn’t think your plan would work,” Erica said excitedly, “but they got him!”

Officer Scott wiped her forehead and frowned at Knoll. “Let’s try this one last time, Mr. Phillips. The only reasonable explanation for your ex-wife’s remains being in that jar- something you’ve always been very protective of- is that your wife didn’t disappear at all, but was murdered. Now, who do you suppose killed her?”

“I had nothing to do with this!” Knoll insisted. “Someone is framing me!”

“Ms. Phillips, you also knew the victim,” said Officer Scott. “Did you put your husband up to this?”

“I knew nothing about it,” Periwinkle said, tears streaming down her face. “When Erica was declared legally dead, I told the police everything I knew! I helped however I could!”

“Hmm, we did search your records after you called in the theft, and that does check out,” the policewoman replied. “But you do have some history of mental instability." 

Lydia saw Periwinkle’s gaze dart down to her forearms, where the cuts were, then back. “I understand that,” she said. “But I’ve been fine ever since then.”

“Still, we’ve got to be practical, Ms. Phillips.” She turned to one of the cops at the door. “Cuff them both and I'll read them their rights.”

_____________________________________________________________________

“Say, Max,” said the large, red-haired cop that had driven Lydia and Delia in the squad car, “Wouldn’t his wife’s head have rotted or something after being dead all that time?”

“I think he got some, like, chemicals, and preserved it. You know, like those dead animals scientists keep in jars,” the other cop on their ride replied. A police clerk had come by with coffee and pastries, and the two men were partaking under the pretense of ‘guarding the scene of the crime.’

“Formaldehyde,” Delia said, moving in and swiping an unclaimed cup of coffee. Quickly, she added: “That’s the chemical. There’s an artist in the UK who’s been experimenting with that as a medium, dead animals and things. He steals most of his ideas, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes all in on that now*. Now that…you fine officers are investigating this crime.”

The two cops looked impressed, and barely aware that Delia was drinking Officer Scott’s coffee. “Hey, lady, you must know all about this stuff,” Max said. “Tell us, is that dead stuff real art, or is that just for like, pictures of Jesus?”

“Yeah, you think this guy’ll get off?” said the other cop. “What if he pleads insanity, like that artist guy who cut off his ear? Maybe one of those people stole your sculpture. You must meet a lotta nuts, in your line of work.”

“Well, you learn things, being in the art world as long as I have,” Delia said confidently. “Let me give you my professional opinion…are either of you going to eat that croissant on top, there?”

The mustachioed cop handed Delia the bag of croissants but almost dropped it, as a horrible scream rang through the gallery. “What the hell was that?” he wondered.

‘That’ was the sound of Knoll screaming, because at the moment Officer Scott said, “You are under arrest for the murder of Erica Phillips,” Erica started cheering….and Knoll heard her.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you,” Officer Scott said, but her voice was drowned out by Knoll’s screaming. Now he could see his wife's ghost standing on the desk, and he went pale, his face contorted in fear.

“Bet you’d thought you’d seen the last of me!” said Erica, laughing. “I guess the shock was a little too much for you, Knoll. At least I met a man who was good in bed before you offed me! You know, the _woman_ ’s satisfaction is important, too…”

“What- what is she doing here?” Knoll cried.

Lydia was so overwhelmed she had to step back, for fear of crying out and giving her own ability away. _This is just like when we read ‘Macbeth’ at school!_ she thought.

“Your wife’s head is here because you put it in a jar,” Officer Scott said, talking to Knoll as if he were not very bright.

“But Erica, you’re DEAD!” Knoll cried, and now even Periwinkle looked at him as if he were totally insane. “Doesn’t anyone see her?” Knoll screeched. The cops left Periwinkle’s side and put Knoll's arms behind his back, even as he tried to fight them.

“I know you can see her!” he screamed at the crowd. Then his eyes found Lydia…who had been staring at Erica.

“Go ahead, scream all you like!” Erica laughed. “You finally got the attention you always wanted!”

“You!” Knoll cried, unable to point at Lydia with his bound hands. “The little girl in black, she can see her! I saw her staring at Erica- don’t play dumb with me, kid! Tell them what you see!”

“I don’t see anything,” Lydia said flatly, “except a man who confessed to killing his wife.”

“You little bitch!” Knoll cried. 

Lydia went to turn away from him, but someone came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t you dare,” Delia told Knoll as she put her hand on Lydia’s shoulder, “talk about my daughter that way.”

"Erica!" Knoll cried. His prominent eyes were rolling now, wild. "What was in the first jar? What was it?" 

Erica smiled and opened her robe, and Lydia hissed, "Don't look." Delia quickly shut her eyes, only now noticing the dead woman practically dancing on a desk in the middle of the office.

"They hate you," Erica whispered, revealing the growth on her torso. Knoll's only reply was a howl of pain- _no,_ Lydia realized. _It's fear. Barbara and Adam told me about that thing, but it's worse than I imagined..._

“Alright, take him downtown, boys,” Officer Scott said. “And don’t you dare manhandle him like that again. Just put him in the backseat of the squad car and let him tire himself out.” Three cops began leading Knoll out the door, even as the artist continued to yell and curse.

“Goodbye!” Erica said jubilantly as Knoll was led away. 

“We’re calling another car for you,” Officer Scott said to Periwinkle. “You’ve got a few things to account for too.”

Periwinkle hung her head and hesitantly spoke: “Y-yes, Officer…”

“You made your bed, Periwinkle,” Erica said mockingly. “Time to lie in it.”

“I know you didn’t do it!” Lydia cried, as Periwinkle’s head shot up and their eyes met.

“Please remove that young lady and send her to the forensics team,” Officer Scott said sharply. "She's creating a disturbance." Delia bristled as she and Lydia were forced out by the cops.

Soon, the police surrounded both stepmother and daughter as the two sat on folding chairs. Lydia’s pictures were taken away to be scrutinized by the forensic experts for clues, while Delia was forced to fill out some paperwork for her ‘stolen property’.

“We’d better put off finding….’your father’s lawn mower’,” Delia said in a bad attempt at stealth.

‘For like a month,” Lydia agreed. “If you make enough money…'mowing lawns', can I go visit Grandma Millie for a weekend? Once I get my license?”

Delia looked surprised. “Your father would be going, you ask him.”

“You mean you’d let him?” Lydia said.

“It’s something you should do together,” Delia said. She didn’t sound especially interested, but she didn’t sound glib or like she was performing onstage, either.

“Thanks Delia,” Lydia whispered.

Now the cops were leading Periwinkle to a waiting squad car. Her head was bowed and she didn’t struggle at all- until she passed Lydia on her way out. Then she lifted her head and mouthed four words at the young girl: “I saw Erica too.”

"Move along," Officer Scott called. 

CODA: 

"Well," Delia said, raising a glass, "here's to a job well done, everyone." The family was gathered around the dining room table, where Delia unveiled the key to the storage unit she had been keeping her sculpture in. Tomorrow, Charles was going to drop it off at the gallery so it could be 'found.' 

"You don't think Knoll is going to try and discredit Periwinkle once he goes to trial?" Barbara asked worriedly. "They might use her history against her." 

"Other than blowing her issues out of proportion, they have nothing on her," Adam reminded her. "There was no evidence three years ago and we made sure there's none now. I really think she's going to be ok, now that her sister is stepping in to help take care of her. Let's celebrate our one day out of the house, and our team effort."

"You mind if I drink the champagne that would have been yours?" Charles asked. "I'm not looking forward to trying to drop that sculpture off tomorrow."

"I am," Lydia said proudly. "I think driving home is gonna be great practice for me." 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Delia is referring to Damien Hirst, an artist often accused of plagiarism. 
> 
> Dedicated to my friend "Sarah," who pointed out that Knoll literally got away with murder. <3

**Author's Note:**

> *Canaday is the art critic played by Terence Stamp in "Big Eyes."


End file.
